Dear Mom,
In a few weeks, it’ll be your birthday. You would’ve been 75. Over the last few months, I’ve been going through some of your journals and Bible study notes; through pictures; through memories. You’ve been gone for over a decade now. I’ve forgotten the sound of your voice, but I still have some text messages and emails. It’s so weird to go back and read those. It’s like a whole different lifetime.
The memories of those last few weeks will come back to me. I can hear the beeping sounds of all the machines in the hospital room. The smell of astringents, medications, and other chemicals fills my nose. Moving from your room, down to the cafeteria, and back up to your room again. I remember that the oncology ward was on the same floor as Labor and Delivery. I would ride down the elevator with new parents and grandparents excited over the life of a baby that had just been birthed. Meanwhile, feeling the pain of a life slipping away. The life of my best friend, my mentor, my mom.
I remember going down to the hospital chapel and sobbing; begging God to take my life instead of yours. I remember falling on the floor outside of your room one night, crying. One of your nurses got down on the floor with me and held me. But of all the painful memories, the worst was when the doctor came in and said there wasn’t anything they could do for you medically; you had one to six months left. That must have been a hopeful estimate because you were gone less than two weeks later. You just said “OK” and seemed to take the news in stride. Now I wonder how you really felt about it. I didn’t ask you. I was too afraid to know.
There were happy memories in there too. You loved the hospital therapy dogs. Each day, a different one would come in and say “hi.” You didn’t have a lot of energy left in you, but you would smile and pet the dogs as best as you could. You were always happy to see their puppy grins and wagging tails. I remember singing “There’s Just Something About That Name” together. You used to sing that song to me when you’d rock me to sleep at night as a toddler. The moment, the memory, came full circle.
But I was angry. Angry at God. I had served Him in ministry for years before this and yet I was ready to walk away. I remember telling Him that if He took you from me, then I was done with Him—unless—He came to comfort me in my grief. I told Him I needed to feel His presence, peace, and comfort after you passed, and if I didn’t, I would walk.
My words to Him were immature, dumb, and completely obtuse. But wouldn’t you know it, He came through. I remember Dad waking me at about 2AM to tell me you were gone. At that moment, although my heart was torn from top to bottom, I felt such peace. God was there. The deep grief came, but it wasn’t unbearable. That peace followed me through the next few several days, weeks, and months.
That last night (we didn’t know it would be your last night), we had someone come sit with you that was recommended to us by a home-health company. She was a widow who had been a pastor’s wife. She had a nice singing voice and sang to you from a hymnal. I’m not sure if you could hear her or not. In the craziness of everything that happened with the funeral home coming to pick you up and all, Dad forgot to thank her. When he called the home health company a few days later, they had no idea who he was talking about. They said they had never heard of her. An angel perhaps? Maybe just a mix-up in communication. Either way, God provided that sweet, Christian woman who sang you into heaven.
I hold these memories with a hand of gratitude. Gratitude that after you got sick, God only kept you here long enough for us to bring you home and say goodbye. He didn’t take you so suddenly that we didn’t get a chance for closure, but He also didn’t prolong your suffering. Gratitude for the busy nurse who took the time to get down on the floor to hug me while I cried. Gratitude for the therapy dogs and their handlers who put a smile on all our faces during those long days at the hospital. Gratitude for that angel-of-a-woman who sang you into God’s presence. Gratitude for His peace and comfort after you were gone. Gratitude that you are with Him.
Through it all, He is still good.
“I will sing the Lord’s praise, for he has been good to me.” Psalm 13:6
“Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in him.” Psalm 34:8
“Lo, Are You Thirsty” – Brenda Heaton, 1989
